The Humming of the Ironwood Tree

My name is Elsie, and I’m sixteen, living in a small town in the foothills of the Blue Mountains. We moved here when I was nine, to a house that had been in my mother’s family for generations. It was a sprawling, creaky Victorian, surrounded by eucalyptus and ironbark trees, and it always felt like it was watching you.

Last October, my great-uncle, whom I’d only met twice, died. He lived in the far north, in a dusty town near the desert. I felt nothing but a vague sense of duty when my mother dragged me to the funeral. He was a stranger, a man who collected clocks and never married. The service was dry, and the only thing that stuck with me was the smell of old paper and the way his house, a cluttered cottage, had a back room locked with a brass key my mother now keeps.

A week after the funeral, I was in my room, trying to study for a history exam. My window overlooks the backyard, where a massive, gnarled ironwood tree stands. It’s old, probably older than the house, and its branches scrape against the glass when the wind blows. That evening, as the sun dipped low, I heard it for the first time: a low, rhythmic hum, like someone singing far away, but muffled, as if through a thick wall. It came from outside, from the direction of the tree. I dismissed it as the wind, but it felt too deliberate, too melodic.

Days passed. The hum grew louder, more persistent. I started to recognize a pattern, a tune I couldn’t quite place. My mother said she couldn’t hear it, and my father, who works nights, was never home. I started to lose sleep, my mind racing to place that melody. Then I remembered: when I was a child, my great-uncle used to send me cassette tapes, recorded stories and songs. He was a hobbyist musician, and he’d hum while he worked. This was his tune.

But that wasn’t possible. He was dead, and he’d lived thousands of miles away. How could his song be coming from the tree?

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my flashlight and crept outside. The air was cold, and the hum was clear as a bell, emanating from the base of the tree. As I approached, the ground felt soft, almost spongy, and the air smelled of damp earth and rot. I knelt down, pressing my ear to the rough bark. The hum vibrated through my skull, and I heard something else: a faint, rhythmic scratching, like fingernails on wood. I jumped back, heart pounding. There was a small, hollow at the base of the tree, partially covered by roots. I couldn’t see inside, but I could feel a warm breath emanating from it.

I ran inside, locked my door, and didn’t sleep. The next day, I called my mother, who was at work, and demanded to know about the tree. She hesitated, then said, ‘Your great-uncle planted that tree when he was a boy, before he left. He said it was his ‘listening tree.’ I never knew what that meant.’

That evening, I heard not only the hum but also whispers. They were too faint to understand, but they felt like they were coming from the hollow. I grabbed a trowel from the shed and started to dig. The earth gave way easily, and I uncovered a small metal box, rusted and covered in dirt. My hands trembled as I lifted it. It was locked, but the lock was corroded, and I managed to break it with a rock.

Inside, I found a stack of letters, yellowed with age, and a small, worn photograph. The letters were addressed to someone named ‘M’, postmarked from our town, decades ago. They were from my great-uncle, but they spoke of things I didn’t understand: references to a ‘debt to the tree,’ a ‘promise to be kept,’ and a recurring phrase: ‘The ironwood hums your name.’

As I read, the hum grew louder, more urgent. The tree seemed to lean toward me, its branches swaying without wind. I looked at the photograph: it was a young man, standing next to the tree, and beside him, a woman with a cold, distant smile. On the back, written in pencil, were the words: ‘M & W, forever.’ I recognized the woman’s face from an old portrait in our attic.

Suddenly, a voice spoke, clear as a bell, from the hollow. It was my great-uncle’s voice, but younger, tinged with regret: ‘She never forgave me. The tree took her, and now it wants you.’

I dropped the letters and scrambled back. The hollow seemed to widen, and I saw, in the darkness, something that looked like a skeletal hand, reaching out. I ran, but I felt a cold grip on my ankle, and I stumbled. The hand was like ironwood, hard and unyielding. I kicked and screamed, and finally, I pulled free, leaving a piece of my jean in its grasp.

I staggered inside, bolted the door, and collapsed. When my parents returned, they found me shaking on the kitchen floor. I tried to tell them, but they saw nothing. My father checked the tree, and found nothing. But that night, I heard the hum again, now from inside my room, and in my closet, I saw a flash of a white dress.

Since then, I’ve worn ironwood bark around my neck, and I’ve poured salt at the base of the tree. The hum is quieter, but it’s still there, just beneath my window. I know it’s not over. The tree is waiting, patient, and it knows my name. I just hope I can leave this town before it takes me too.